


Lazy Sunday Afternoon.

by muddy_peacock



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Back in the Muggle world, E:WE, F/M, How Things Could Be, Post-J. K. Rowling, Record Shops Are Incredible Places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13998228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muddy_peacock/pseuds/muddy_peacock
Summary: What does life look like for Hermione Granger and Severus Snape when they leave the magical world, and how did they get here? Two people who value their privacy may, it seems, learn how to share it with one another.Gradually.(Will be multi-chapter work.)





	1. Chapter 1

Curtains billow in a summer breeze drifting through an open window, and hair lifts and rustles quietly against the pillows. The room is dim but not dark, the gentle scent of freshly cut suburban lawns mingling with the unmistakable aromas of lemon verbena and sex; the quiet here is undisturbed by the sounds of the life outside their walls.

She lies on her side, curled towards him but not touching exactly. Hovering within reach, one might say. He lies stretched on his back, one arm across his chest, and another flung up above his head with his fingers tangled in the strands of her hair that have wound their way towards him in her sleep. They are covered, in varying degrees, by a white cotton sheet; the other bedclothes lie pooled at the foot of the mattress, cast off in the heat of the afternoon and their own exertions.

The bedroom is nondescript: a relatively modern wooden bedframe, solid but plain, and a large wardrobe from the turn of the century before last. It's the sort of room you might find in your grandmother's house - calm and serene in in shades of sage green and buttercream. Tranquil. A place of simple comfort without ostentation of any kind. There are two wooden bedside lockers, each with its own plain cream coloured lamp. One is laden with paperbacks, professional journals, a profusion of writing implements, and dog-eared notebooks, while the other has a volume of Oscar Wilde, a biography of Janis Joplin, and an empty tumbler alongside a black silicone-strapped men's wristwatch. There is a black leather holdall in one corner of the room, half tucked behind an old-fashioned wing-backed chair, and a pair of black boots sit neatly beside it. These signs of someone on their best behaviour as a guest are confirmed by the single hairbrush and black hair tie that rest on the right hand side of a dressing table that's littered with bottles of body lotion, hair detangler, and pots of multivitamins and cod liver oil tablets. This apparent awareness of boundaries contrasts sharply with the obviously post-coital couple sleeping on a late July Sunday afternoon. What is one to make of them?

He is older than she, possibly by a decade, possibly by two. His hair is black, silky and long, drifting about his neck as he sleeps, and he has yet to find much grey there. His skin is weathered like someone who spends a lot of time outdoors but he's naturally pale, not given to tanning easily. His body is slender and lithe, definitely someone who moves easily in his own skin, and while not stereotypically handsome, he is striking. You would look twice if you passed him on the street. It's an unusual face showing signs of wit and intelligence even in sleep. You can see where the lines will be more prominent when he wakes but he will look none the worse for it. His nose is a little larger than might be ideal, and you can assume - quite correctly - that he got teased about it as a child. His sinewy shoulders lead to arms that are unobtrusively roped with muscle, and there is what looks like a faded tattoo on the inside of one forearm. You can draw the conclusion of a misspent youth without going too far astray. His finely boned wrists give way to strong capable hands and long, dexterous fingers topped with close cropped nails. One or two might be slightly bitten, and some of the others appear to be grass-stained. His torso is marked with faded seams of scar tissue but, given that they are all well healed and faded, it might put you in mind of Kintsukoroi - the Chinese practice of fixing broken ceramic with gold-dusted lacquer. In short, his scars, while clearly the result of vicious wounds originally, now add to the compelling sight he makes, glistening against the porcelain pallor of his skin.

His bedmate is slim, narrow in all regards but doesn't look underfed or ill, simply not designed to be curvaceous. She has light brown hair with the occasional bloom of copper tints which are, to the envy of many who have no other reason to notice her, entirely natural. Her hair is prone to wildness, although not nearly as much as she believes, and is currently snaking its way out of a loose bun at the back of her head. Given its entanglement in her lover's fingers, it's not a huge step of the imagination to think that it may have had some help. Her features - which could legitimately be called gamine - are dotted with freckles, and her skin is smooth and unblemished save for slightly chapped lips. She could be a dancer but there's an air of practicality about her that is slightly at odds with this. She's almost certainly a runner. She has an inquisitive face; it is the face of someone who always has a question, and who takes notes on your answer. It is a face to be found most usually behind a book or a computer screen, and one senses a keen intelligence that is not afraid of hard work. It's a given that the overflowing bedside locker is hers, a fair match for her overflowing mind and her insatiable curiosity. She bears her own scars, also faded, although not so numerous as his. 

Her eyes flutter now. A motorbike going too quickly down this quiet residential street has dragged her towards consciousness, although her companion sleeps on. She leans up on one elbow, watches him for a moment while she frees her hair from his fingers with an overwhelming tenderness in her expression, and then quietly leaves the bed. Stretching, she walks to the bathroom and turns on the shower taking care that the intervening doors are closed so as not to disturb him. She washes her body and her hair slowly and methodically, enjoying the feel of water travelling over her skin, and the looseness in her muscles. When finished and towelled dry, she returns to the bedroom to pull on clean underwear, a Greenpeace t-shirt, and some old battered jeans before bundling her hair back up and making her way silently downstairs. 

This house belonged to her parents and, aside from general maintenance, she has changed it as little as possible in the years since they left it to her. This is partly due to sentiment and partly due to practicality - she rarely relies on solely one or the other. It is comfortable, lived-in, and clean. The kitchen - undoubtedly her favourite room - has french windows opening out into the garden that let in a flood of sunlight and birdsong when she unlocks them. 

She turns on the kettle, and flips the switch for the CD player so that Nick Drake's _Five Leaves Left_ plays softly in the background. A quick rummage in the fridge shows that there is salad, cheese, and soup for a light dinner, or some ingredients for spaghetti if he fancies something heavier. Locating some crusty bread in the cupboard, she sighs happily, content in the knowledge that she does not need to go into hunter gatherer mode at the local supermarket. If she can make it through until tomorrow morning without having to see anyone outside of the walls of this house, she will deem it a good day. She makes some tea and sits at the old scrubbed kitchen table to revel in the peace and quiet that this afternoon has brought. 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Their reunion when it happened was not particularly auspicious. They had bumped into one another, literally and quite painfully, in Piccadilly Records, Manchester, where Hermione was shocked to see her erstwhile professor in an elderly Radiohead t-shirt and an unzipped hoody; this was such a far cry from his old buttoned up teaching robes of years gone by that she thought for a moment she must be hallucinating. 

She had travelled to Manchester to meet up with a friend at the Royal Exchange Theatre and, having the morning free, was ambling around at a loose end. On the assumption that record shops are always a good idea, she wandered in and was so engrossed in the items on display, particularly a copy of The Rolling Stone's _Sticky Fingers_ LP, that she collided thoroughly and heavily with Snape long before she had a chance to realise who it was. He was, as ever, quicker on the uptake. 

"Ah, Miss Granger. How unexpected!" he said in tones that propelled her instantly into being thirteen and insecure again. 

It took her a moment to find her tongue so great was her surprise, and she didn't know whether to be alarmed or relieved that he stood there, looking down at her, apparently prepared to wait for an answer. She had apologised profusely while wondering what on earth to call him - he wasn't her professor any more so the title was inappropriate, and she couldn't quite entertain the notion of using his first name uninvited. Mr. Snape, on the other hand, was just, well, _wrong._

They spoke briefly but not unkindly for several moments before he departed, leaving her utterly bewildered, having seen someone who she hadn't been sure was still alive. In the days that followed, the memory felt more like something her subconscious had dug up while she slept. To see him, there, looking like that, and gone again so quickly, was beyond surreal.

She thought of him repeatedly and intensely upon returning home, aggravated that she didn't have more data to work with. She tried searching the internet but could find no trace of the man, and in time she came to believe that he would be a mystery that would remain unsolved. After all, even if she found him, tracked him down, what could she possibly say to rationalise such peculiar behaviour? 

Her old school was something that she had turned her back on within twelve months of leaving it; seeking information there was not a step she was prepared to take. It had taken her long enough to fade into the background after her time at Hogwarts was completed and she was simply not prepared to open herself up to that level of scrutiny again. 

In short, unless she wanted to hang around record stores in Manchester on the off-chance that he might show up again, she had no choice but to let it go. And as she had a full time job, nay a career, near her hometown in the south of England, loitering in Lancashire was simply not a runner. 

Nearly three months later, she was accosted by her elderly next door neighbour as she came home from work on evening. 

"Hermione, dear," said Mrs. Westcott, "I'm glad I caught you. The postman left a package for you today. Let me just run inside and get it for you." 

If Hermione thought that the likelihood of her eighty year old neighbour running into the house was slim, she was mercifully too polite to say so. When the parcel was handed to her, and she saw that unmistakable handwriting on the brown paper packaging, it was all she could do to stammer her thanks and make it through her front door without fainting.

It seemed that if she had not found him, he could still find her.


	2. Chapter 2

The delivery sat in her kitchen for twenty-four hours before she gathered the courage to open it. While she did not think he meant her any harm, she was alarmed by its arrival which was wholly unprecedented. They had had no contact since she left her ‘other life' as she now called it, and his polite if formulaic enquiries as to her health and the reason for her visit to Manchester when they met had not given her cause to suspect that he wished to resume their...what? Acquaintance? They had hardly been on friendly terms in their previous incarnation as teacher and student. 

And yet here was an unsolicited package sitting on her table. Brown paper over bubble wrap if her fingers were to be believed, addressed with black ink, and sent by way of the Royal Mail with not an owl in sight. How very normal in spite of its undeniable abnormality. When her inevitable curiosity outweighed her confusion and she carefully slit the neatly sellotaped ends, she found a handwritten note in a plain white envelope, and the same Rolling Stones LP she'd been holding when they collided. 

_"Dear Miss Granger,_

_While I am aware that you have left the magical community behind you - and it seems that there are a plethora of reasons why this might be so - people are relatively easy to find in this day and age provided one has access to a computer and an internet connection. Thus, I hope you will forgive my intrusion and accept that it comes from someone who understands the value and desirability of confidentiality. I am not in any position to share the information of your whereabouts, nor would I._

_However, I felt reparation was called for. I suspect my left shoulder left a nasty contusion on your head when we met recently, and I couldn't help noticing that you were clinging to this record for the duration. I am sending it to you in the hope that it brings you the same pleasure it has brought me over the years._

_You are, of course, under no obligation to respond but I wanted you to know that I was pleased to see you. While I believe I understand why you left your previous life behind, I have often wondered what became of you. I hope you have found contentment, and wish you all the best as one outsider to another._

_Sincerely,  
S. Snape.”_

 

If one needed a visual of the word ‘dumbfounded’ at that moment in time, the sight of Hermione Granger upon reading that note would have been the perfect representation. ‘Astonished,’ ‘flabbergasted,’ and almost certainly ‘stunned’ would have been suitably covered too. She read his short letter no less than five times, end to end, before she realised that a pot on the stove was boiling over, and her dinner was almost certainly burnt in the oven. Moreover, she found she did not care. 

The rest of the week passed in a daze.

By the time the weekend rolled around, she was starting to regain some clarity. It was, after all, a thoughtful and kind gesture, a demonstration of his previous attention to detail, coupled with a clear sensitivity in regard to her desire to remain ‘an outsider.’ Only when her brain stopped fizzing with static and started to recover some its customary objectivity did it occur to her that he might have been expecting some degree of comprehension on her side. He had said “as one outsider to another” after all - did that mean what she thought it might? Had he turned his back on Hogwarts too? It would make sense. If she had been through what he had while living within those walls, she was sure she’d want to see the back of it as soon as practical. He had, after all, more than fulfilled his duties as both potions master and spy for The Order, and he had been an excellent teacher assuming one was of a mind to learn. 

It would be a lie to say he’d never crossed Hermione’s mind in the intervening years. As she had grown older and discovered the world of Being A Grown Up, she had wondered about the man rather than the teacher, and the incredible strain he must have been under. She had thought, looking back, that he had a cleverness that was wasted in his profession and found that she rather sympathised with his outbursts considering the idiocy of many of her peers. Knowing now that he had survived his previous injuries - which were reported to have been grievous with much salacious detail from what passed for journalists in the magical community - she felt sure that he had turned his back for much the same reasons that she had. 

For six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione’s life had been miserable. Whenever she left Grimmauld Place (where she stayed for lack an alternative) she was hounded. People wanted to take photos with her, people wanted her autograph, people wanted some proof that they had met one of the Golden Trio. Random passers-by felt it acceptable to accost her in the street to ask her about whether or not she and Ron, or she and Harry, were a couple. They asked her what she planned to do with her life. They asked her where she was going. They asked her if she wanted to go for a drink with them, to go for dinner with them, if she would teach their children, or if she wanted to hook up with their son, their brother, their nephew, or all of the above. 

When she stayed in it was no better. She received owls from all manner of businesses requesting endorsements; she got letters from the Ministry offering her jobs; she got notes from innumerable wizards asking for her hand in marriage or even, occasionally, unwashed underwear. In short, she was tormented by unsolicited attention from far and wide until, one day, she decided she could take it no more. She apparated from Grimmauld Place to her old neighbourhood and walked to her parents house. Knowing that they were away on holiday and would be for another week so she let herself in, locked the front door, sat down in their sitting room completely alone and listened carefully as the silence washed over her. 

That silence increasingly became her refuge and, in due course, when her friends had ceased almost entirely to need her, she decided that the time had come to bow out completely. She packed her scant belongings, wrote letters, and left, not bothering to take steps to cover her tracks. She predicted - with what turned out to be a particularly painful accuracy - that no one would make very much effort to find her. The previous year had shown with depressing clarity exactly where her friends priorities lay; in the aftermath of a war, when everyone was licking their wounds and taking stock of what would come next, she had been useful as a sounding board and a compassionate ear dispensing sensible advice. Now they were moving on, slowly but surely. Hermione understood that the wizarding world would never be her safe place again, and upon that realisation, had not wanted to remain for a moment longer. 

Her parents, bemused by the sporadic reappearance of their daughter after the war, had been kind but ineffectual. They could not begin to fathom the things she had seen and done, and in time came to believe it extremely unlikely that they ever could. After she had been living at home for a year or so, they felt quite put out with Hermione’s persistent ‘Otherness,’ prompting much guilt between them. When they were offered the chance to purchase the practice of an old friend in Australia who was preparing for retirement, they seized the opportunity with alacrity. They had made the house over to their only child who had said categorically that she had no desire to live Down Under and, other than the odd email or phone call at intervals, she heard little from them.

What could have felt like desertion turned out to feel very much like freedom. Thanks to her very practical and frugal parents, she was a woman of twenty-one in possession of a mortgage-free home who needed very little in order to live comfortably. She took a part time job in a local English language college while she decided what to do next. Although she enjoyed her work there, after several people suggested she had a natural aptitude for teaching she had to explain that she had done quite enough of that during her own school career to ever consider it as a full time occupation, thank you very much.

“I seemed to spend most of my school life holding other people’s hands for them, and thinking for them, guiding them. It was enough to last forever, if I’m honest. Whatever I do next will have to be for me, for the joy of it. Given that I have the advantage of being able to take my time, I’m determined not to jump at the first thing that comes along,” she told the Principal who nodded his agreement while thinking mournfully of his own overdraft and college debt.

She spent her evenings at the kitchen table on her laptop, scouring the web for inspiration. At times she felt close to despair, convinced that she might drift indefinitely. Taking some online courses helped - at least there was a regular flow of knowledge that kept her brain working. FutureLearn.com became a playground of choice as she ran full tilt through diverse and sometimes peculiar subject matter. Modules that should have taken weeks were absorbed in hours and, in time, that too became obsolete. As time passed, she came to terms with what she had already known deep down. The fun was in the learning, the diversity of subject matter, and the opportunity to go headlong at something for a brief period of time before moving on to something else. The fun was in the chase. When she saw a job opening as a junior researcher for the BBC, it seemed as if it had been made for her. 

Almost ten years later and she was still chasing information, analysing it, categorising it, and doing what she did best. Her life was, in the main, a happy one. She worked long hours now as she had when starting out a junior although she rarely felt them; progressing in her career had been child’s play to Hermione and had happened organically with little manoeuvering required on her part - her reputation spread quickly soon prompting constant requests for her expertise. She had friends and colleagues to socialise with who liked her, as well as respecting her for the dedication and professionalism she showed at work. She met people from all walks of life as a result of her job, and often travelled with crews as they filmed. Her practicality and lack of grandstanding ensured her a warm welcome wherever she went. A passion for the arts in general resulted in spending much of her spare time at galleries, theatres, and concerts. She ran, these days, for the sheer joy of it, finding that her stamina was physically impressive as well as mentally. Her days were full and her nights passed in the sleep of the contented.

And into this comfortable life well lived, there arrived a package.

“From Professor Snape,” she thought. “Professor, well, except he isn’t any more… _Severus_ , I suppose. _Severus Snape sent me a present._ He took the time to find out where I live. He went back to the shop where we met, bought an album for me, and found my address and sent it to me. By post. I haven’t seen the man in, what, more than a decade? And we talked for possibly four minutes about two and half months ago… I mean, good lord, what do I do with this?” 

To which, of course, the obvious answer was “Say thank you!” Rummaging in her kitchen dresser, she found paper and pen and sat down to draft her response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FutureLearn.com is a real thing and it's full of fascinating stuff to learn about. Best of all, it's free.
> 
> The English Language college is also an actual place. (http://www.goldersgreencollege.com/) I thought it might work out to be close enough to Heathgate where Hermione's house was. I could see her doing something like that and being really good at it.


End file.
